The Third Jewel

On retreat we
learn about the three jewels. Buddha
refers to the historical person, Siddhartha Gotama—who became awakened under
the Bodhi Tree in India—but also to the “awakened one” inside each of us. Dharma is the path, the way of life outlined by the
Buddha’s teachings. Sangha is the
community: those who practice, those who sit in silence with a common purpose.

I welcome the
first two jewels; I resist the third.

It’s ironic,
really. I enjoy being on retreat and appreciate the camaraderie with my silent
partners. I welcome the vibrant, gentle energy of practice that accumulates in
the meditation hall, how it calms and inspires me during the first golden
breaths of dawn; and through the sleepy silence of the sun-baked afternoon; and
as the air cools, the sky darkens, and cricket song becomes the soundtrack of
our experience. In these moments, boundaries disappear. I am sitting. They are
sitting. No difference. I am breathing.
We are breathing. No difference.
I feel accepted. I feel connected.

I feel here.

So what exactly am
I resisting?

Trust. I resist
trusting the experience, and myself, and what I feel. Can what happens on
retreat really be true connection?
People don’t look at each other. We don’t speak or interact beyond holding a
door open or passing a napkin across the dining table. After our time together,
we will exit into our “other” lives, perhaps never cultivating the connections
that may have taken root in the loam of deep silence.

Or at least I won’t. For me the sangha is as much an escape as it
is a community. Maybe more. In silence, I needn’t worry about small talk or
nervous introductions. I don’t have to feel tongue-tied around a beautiful
woman, or jealous of some guy in his mid-twenties who has already traveled through
India, or published a book, or found his life partner. Without the option to
converse, I don’t have to contend with the perpetual, aggressive worries of the
world outside of retreat. She’s too attractive to be interested in
me. He’s probably got enough friends. That person seems more spiritual, or
outgoing, or healthy, or intelligent, or confident, or comfortable in nature…

On retreat, I’m
blissfully safe from the internal side effects of community. I can remain at a
distance, outside the realm of risking genuine intimacy. The sangha is the one place I can truly be alone without fear.

Sometimes, my
birthday falls during a retreat. I like this, as even outside of retreat I
often spend the day quietly, contemplatively. I’ll take myself to a favorite
teashop, or bring a good book into the woods for the afternoon. I like being
acknowledged from a distance—cards in the mail, messages on my answering
machine.

On retreat, it’s
so simple. By the time my birthday arrives, I have generally settled into my
rhythm: sitting, walking, eating, resting. I have taken my place—connected and separate—in the sangha and appreciate the anonymity
of being the lone person who knows what the day means. Sometimes I
forget—momentarily or even for long stretches—even that it is my birthday. When I do remember, nothing much
changes. I may feel a tinge of special-ness or have a distant query about my
family, but mostly I continue moving with quiet observation through the redwood
buildings, shady forest paths, and curved walkways that lead to and from the
day’s activities. It’s delightful, really, crossing the threshold into a new
year as a silent, nameless party of one.

Well, almost.

I awoke to
dissipating fog and a cool summer breeze on the morning of my thirty-third
birthday. After the 6 a.m. meditation, I spent a few moments sitting at my
favorite granite Buddha statue, warming myself in the rising sun. The Buddha’s
eyes gazed downward towards a collection of offerings in his lap and at his
feet: coins, small slips of paper containing prayers and mantras, sun-bleached
photographs of monks, fragments of red string, sticks of incense, and several
large, multi-patterned turkey feathers. I wanted to offer something. I
considered returning to my room for a few coins, or removing the mala bead bracelet from my wrist. Instead, I found a
smooth stone under a nearby tree, rubbed it with my thumb for a few moments,
and then gently placed it on the Buddha’s knee.

I sat for another
moment before rising and walking to the dining hall.

My breakfast that
morning was a large bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with almonds, raisins, fresh
granola, and vanilla yogurt. I sat at an unoccupied table and raised a spoonful
of oatmeal and lifted it into my mouth. I felt the warmth of the cereal, the
silky coolness of the yogurt, the plump juiciness of each raisin. I closed my
eyes, chewed for a few minutes, and then retrieved another spoonful.

A few moments
later, a tanned young man wearing a hemp shirt sat across from me. He placed a
steaming mug of tea and a boiled egg on the table, and then reached into the
pocket of his cargo pants, removing an orange. I stared at his hands as he
peeled the fruit, gently stacking the strips of rind next to the egg. They were
weathered, with calluses and cracked skin around the undersides of his knuckles
and fingertips. He sectioned the orange with grace and power, his hands like
those of a carpenter, mountaineer, or boat-builder. For a moment I thought I
was looking at the hands of my only brother.